


It's A Little Bit Of Fever

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: Take my hand--Take My Whole life too [61]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Late at Night, M/M, Sick!Mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:23:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4141110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shit, Mick, I think you might have a fever or something.”<br/>Mickey scowls, body shivering. “Fuck off, man, I don't get sick.”</p><p>(Anon Prompt : College au/ Mickey gets sick and Ian looks after him??/?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Little Bit Of Fever

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry it's a little rough I've been drinking... but I will change and edit my mistakes tomorrow:)

It was Mickey's last semester of college. It wasn't exactly his idea of a life; he had always thought he'd end up in jail, or worse dead, but after Mandy's determined grovelling he ended up at college. Where, of course, he had met his roommate; Ian. The only person in that place that actually _knew_ him and not for his gun range or previous reputation. He liked that. He liked the fact that he had something with Ian that no-one else knew about. It was sort of comforting.

He was almost done with his arts degree, after all the stress of the past year that literally worn him down to the bone, but Mr Giles was going to be the death of him. Not because he was known for his previous military status before teaching, but because he gave him a big project, that was in for _tomorrow,_ and Mickey still hadn't started it yet. Despite Mr Giles always being on his ass about the project being a huge percentage of his grade, at this point Mickey just felt like giving up.

Because lets be realistic; Mickey had to paint a realistic image of a tree, or any sort of nature along that concept, and he only had a couple of hours to create it. Mickey wasn't _that_ fast with his hands, and within that time frame it wasn't the easiest of challenges. So, there he was, sat on a stupid park bench at eight o'clock, trying to paint a fucking tree that he saw almost every single day.

Ian was going to kill his ass. It was pretty cold outside, and Ian had insisted through his over-caring nature that if Mickey didn't go out with a coat he would end up with a fever, or some sort of deadly cold that would leave him cooped up in bed. Obviously, Mickey didn't give a shit about the cold – he was a hard-ass, nothing was competing with him? His coffee had gone cold an hour ago, staring at him with daggers in its eyes.

“Fucking hell,” He mutters to himself. There was only a little light shedding against the tree, and there was a terrible wind that stuck frozen against his bare arms. Yep. He should of totally started this earlier – _but_ Ian's dick was a good use of distraction from that. It wasn't like he was _wasting_ his time, was it?

The moonlight hit against the tree, casting a lit shadow that looked nothing more than beautiful. Mickey had caught it in the corner of his eye, on the verge of breaking down and deciding which way was better to kill himself with, and then he got the idea. He started to paint.

The thing was; he hadn't text Ian for the whole day and he knew his ass would be dead when he got in. Especially now that his phone had gone completely flat.

***

It was close to one in the morning when Mickey made his way back to his and Ian's dorm room. His arms were red raw from the wind, but his painting was complete. That's all that he needed at this point – that and Ian's arms warming him up because he literally felt like he had frost-bite in his dick at this point.

Due to the slight malfunction of his phone dying, he had no way of letting Ian know where he was or if he was getting back. Plus, he had to walk almost three blocks just to get back to the dorm, holding a fresh-new painting that was still trying to dry. Mickey had berated himself for not leaving Ian a note, or some sort of message earlier because he _knew_ Ian, and he knew that the redhead would be panicking right now.

Mickey was exhausted, his eyes were drooping as he lugged himself down the hall towards their door. His feet hurt, boots rubbing like fuck against the back of his ankles. As he reaches the door, he looks down towards his painting, pride rising through his veins as he remained happy with the results. It was the first thing he was actually proud for.

Ian probably had a different attitude.

With sore feet, bags under his eyes, a runny nose, and chattering teeth, Mickey fumbles with the key against the door, hands shaking against the cold lingering against his body like a wet blanket. Just as he slipped it into the lock, the door was already swinging open, Ian standing behind it with a flare in his eyes and an unamused look spread against his face. Mickey only hoped that Ian was still sleeping; he was too tired for any sort of confrontation.

Ian practically shouted, hand against the door. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Do you really have to shout?” Mickey snarls, closing his eyes as his head pounded. When he opened them he knew Ian's face was asking for answers. In a sigh, he pulls out his painting, shoving it into Ian's chest. “I was at the stupid park, I had to paint some dumb tree for a project.”

Ian looks down, smile rising against his lips, as if with pride. He looks back over to Mickey, raising his brow a little, “ _You_ were at the park? _You?_ I thought the only place you went was that studio and in here.” Ian mumbles to himself. He runs a hand through his hair before noticing Mickey's shivering, tired frame. “Jesus, Mickey. Did you forget to bring your fucking jacket? Get in here.” Ian drags Mickey inside, kicking the door shut.

Mickey rubs a hand down his face, carefully placing his painting against the wall as Ian shut the door quietly. Ian places his hands against his hips, tilting his head a little. “So, why _were_ you painting in the park at one in the morning?”

“Project.” Mickey utters, setting his bag against the table and beginning to take off his boots. All he wanted to do was sleep, and he was fucking freezing and was in need of Ian's heater of a body and blanket.

Ian sighs, nearing up to Mickey, panicked. “What the hell were you thinking, huh? You didn't fucking tell me where you were, what you were doing? It may sound like I'm some stalkerish piece of shit boyfriend, but I was really worried. Like really. You could have been dead for all I knew, Mick.” He finally breathes, all the worry washing away when Mickey's face cracked into a sleepy smile.

Mickey wraps his arms around Ian's waist, pulling him closer. “Calm the fuck down, Gallagher.” Ian looks down, stressed, and Mickey combs the fallen hair infront of his face out of the way, before softly explaining. “Don't be so dramatic, you know I can handle myself. My cell fucking died, that's why I didn't answer you. I wasn't like ignoring you or any of that shit, so don't start.”

“But, Mick-” Ian starts, still worried.

Cutting off his words, Mickey presses his shivering lips against Ian's, hand combing through his hair as he lifted up against his tip-toes. “Fucking giant.” he mumbles against Ian's lips, causing the younger man to laugh loudly. When he pulls away, he groans out loud, knocking his head against Ian's chin. “I'm fucking freezing, so shut the fuck up and hold me for a minute.”

“Wait, you're _freezing?”_ Ian suddenly pulls away, giving him a questioning and slightly concerned look. Frowning, he tells Mickey, “Man, you're hotter than a fucking sauna, how are you cold?”

Mickey tries to snuggle back into the hold, sleepily muttering. “What the fuck are you rabbiting on about. I've been out for fucking hours in that shitty weather, of course I’m freezing my ass off.” Mickey had no idea what Ian was talking about, none at all, his body was literally frozen, nose still running, teeth still chattering.

“Mick, you're burning up.” Ian presses his hand against Mickey's forehead, pushing his black-hair out of the way, that had been messed up against his skin. “Shit, Mick, I think you might have a fever or something.”

Mickey scowls, body shivering. “Fuck off, man, I don't get sick.”

Ian gives him the _come on_ look, cocking his head to the side. “Looks like you do.”

Flipping him off, Mickey leaves the warmth of Ian's arms and goes to walk over to the make-shift double bed. Ian has other ideas. The younger boy pulls at his wrist, tugging him backwards and over to the small bathroom. Mickey was too tired to protest, and besides he could always tell Ian off about it in the morning. Ian sits him against the toilet seat, digging around in the miniature cabinet above it.

He finds the thermometer, hovering it before Mickey's mouth. “Open up.”

Mickey grunts, pushing it away. “I don't need that shit. I'm not fucking sick.”

Ian huffs out in annoyance, leaning against his left leg. Mickey was always tricky when it came to being sick. “Stop being so stubborn and let me do this, will you?” Mickey pouts, angrily, ducking his head as Ian swayed against his legs. “Mickey.” He says again, this time demanding.

Mickey rolls his eyes, opening his mouth reluctantly. Ian placed the thermometer under his tongue, waiting for it to beep. Mickey started to move around a little, Ian rests his freehand against his shoulder. “Stop moving, Mick.” Mickey frowns up towards him, Ian sighs taking the stick out of his mouth, eyes widening. “Holy shit, Mick, you're 103.”

Mickey groans, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eyes before trying to stand. “I'm fucking fine, just let me go to sleep, right?” He stands up too quickly and suddenly he felt dizziness sweep his body. He falls forward but Ian catches him quickly into his arms.

“You're not fine, Mickey. Jesus.” Ian said, helping Mickey up into a steady position.

Shutting off the bathroom light, Ian pulls Mickey with him back into the bedroom space. His arm hooks at Mickey's waist, leading him towards the bed before letting him fall against it. Mickey flops onto his back, groaning against the bounce. Ian feels a tinge of guilt, but instead Ian pulls Mickey's shoes and socks off. He walks over to the dresser and pulls out a pair of sweats, chucking them over to Mickey. “Here, put these on, I'll be right back.”

“Where the fuck you going?” Mickey calls out, grunting a little. The pounding in his head was getting worse and he could hardly keep his eyes open. He shimmies out of his jeans, discarding them onto the floor as he slipped on Ian's long, baggy sweats. Then he plugs his phone in, leaning over the bed a little, the black device turning on and beeping repeatedly as it informed him on all of his missed calls.

Ten. Ten missed calls. Mickey couldn't help but feel guilty that Ian had been worrying.

Ian darts back in with a half-full bottle of medicine. Mickey had already shoved himself under the blankets and pulled them high against his chest. Ian walks around, amused look against his face, and readjusted the pillows behind Mickey's back. The brunette rolls his eyes, in pain, and sits up against the headboard.

The redhead kneels against the side of the bed, pouring out the right measurement of medicine against the small spoon he had pulled out. He waves it before Mickey's face, Mickey shakes his head. “Take it.” he orders, trying to grab Mickey's hand to take the spoon. Mickey doesn't budge.

Groaning, Ian nearly snaps. “Jesus, Mickey, just have the goddamn medicine.”

Mickey crosses his arms, still shaking his head in a rectified protest. Ian already knew that Mickey hated being sick, and hated medicine greatly. Mickey scoffs a little, before a cough riles up his throat. Spluttering, he pushes the spoon away. “No, I don't want it. I don't need it.”

Ian carries on, not giving in. “Yes you do.” He demands. “Now take the fucking spoon so I can go make you some shitty chicken soup you love.”

The brunette narrows his eyes, scanning Ian curiously. Ian was known for his trick of the trades, his ways of getting Mickey to do what he wanted. Instead, he takes the stupid spoon from Ian's hands and swallows the vile medicine whole, wincing at the awful taste that lingered around his mouth. In a scowl, he wiped his mouth. “I fucking hate you.”

Ian scoffs, standing up against his legs, taking the spoon from Mickey. “Oh shut up. Stop being so dramatic. It's a little bit of fever, it'll be gone in a couple of days.” He takes the medicine bottle and secures the cap, pivoting against his heel, before he stopped and turned his head with a weak smile. “It gets any worse, you better tell me, right?”

Mickey knocks his head back, groaning, feeling a straight feeling of nausea thrive through his body. “I'm fine, Gallagher, don't you worry that pretty head of yours.”

By the time Ian rushes in, Mickey's already puking into the bucket that appeared at the side of the bed, strangely. Ian walks through, stopping suddenly at the sight, before rushing over to Mickey's aid and stroking against his back. “Fine my fucking ass. Look at you.”

“Rather not.” Mickey muttered before hurling back into the bucket.

Ian turns his nose up at the smell, before rubbing his hand back and forth against Mickey's back. He wasn't used to seeing Mickey like this. Not at all. The guy had an immune system of a bull; it was only around two times a year Mickey would be sick, not even when he was intoxicated.

Once Mickey had stopped, Ian helped him lay back against the pillows before taking the bucket and emptying it's contents into the toilet, flushing it away. When he walks back through, running a tired hand through his hair, he stops at the door frame, eyes glued to Mickey grunting and panting against the quilts, body shaking.

Ian stands up straight, smiling weakly, voice soft. “I'll make that soup tomorrow.”

Mickey gives him a silent thanks, shivering violently. “Okay.”

The redhead walked over, slowly pulling at the quilt wrapped firmly around Mickey's shaking body. Once it was pulled away, Mickey goes to grab for it. “ _Ian,_ give it back.”

“One second.” Ian promised, before leaning forward and pulling Mickey's tank over his head. The brunettes eyes popped open, sending him a questioning look due to his actions. Ian shakes his head to what he knows Mickey assumes, and chucks the shirt across the room and into the pile of laundry.

Mickey starts to shiver, wrapping his arms around himself. “Fuck you.”

Ian laughs a little, before picking up a sweater from the floor and tossing it into Mickey's direction. It was his typical, college sweater – all printed with the name of the college and a stupid logo that meant nothing but team spirit apparently. It was miles too big for Mickey – Ian's gangly limbs stretched way to wide for comfort – and it covered almost past his knee-caps when he stood.

Mickey loved it. It always smelt like Ian and it wasn't like he hadn't worn it before.

Sometimes he would even steal it, curl up to it when Ian was going to be home late.

The brunette scowls towards the fabric, his arms aching massively due to his cold – fever – whatever the fuck it was. Ian caught it, tilting his head as he squinted towards him. Mickey pouts, shifting a little. “Help me.” He whispers, voice slightly shaky.

Ian's face softens, his face splitting into a glistening grin. Mickey felt his body trembling even more now that he saw the expression on the other man's face. Ian shuffles over, “As you wish, your highness.”

Mickey lifts his arms up weakly. “I ain't fucking royalty.” He grumbles.

Ian helps him into the sweater, pulling it down to it covered most of Mickey's body. “If you say so, Mick. Whatever you say, princess.” Mickey growls, pulling himself further beneath his nest of warm blankets, burying his nose into the collar of the sweater, the sweet smell of Ian embracing him.

For a minute, Ian disappears into their small bathroom before coming back with tissues, a bottle of water, and another bucket. He's wearing nothing but sweats, his body all glimmering against the moonlight falling through the broken blinds. Mickey sighs heavily, eyes trailing over Ian's toned and ravishing body that he wouldn't mind pouncing on if it wasn't for the stupid damn cold.

Ian clicks off the light, getting into the bed beside Mickey. “Here.” He motions, laying next to Mickey, pulling the blanket around him with his arm inviting him into an embrace. Mickey curls into him and his heat, wrapping his shivering arms around his waist, resting his head against his chest. Ian kisses at his damp hair, tugging at the quilt so it covered their shoulders.

As Mickey scoots further into Ian, tucked warmly into his chest and his sweater, he feels obliged to break the silence. Voice exhausted, Mickey mumbles. “Ian?”

Ian pops one eye open, stroking down the length of Mickey's back. “Yeah?”

Mickey looks up in the darkness through his lashes. “I'm sorry. I should of called.”

Ian lets out a long and waited breath. “It's fine, Mick, really.”

“It isn't-” Mickey turns in the dark, arms still wrapped around Ian's waist. He hated to admit it, but he really _should_ of thought more clearly. Now that him and Ian were actually together, he needed to remember that domestic crap.

Instead, Ian kisses the tip of Mickey's nose, hand reaching up to cup his face. “Shut up, would you? I said it was fine. I'm not going to yell at you, aright, not tonight. Just go to sleep you big idiot.” He kisses Mickey's hair again, pulling him closer.

Mickey feels his voice all weak and small, testing him. “Okay. Yeah. Fine.”

“Good. Now sleep.”

They both settled back into the pillows; Mickey secured and tightly wound around Ian, his head laid against his chest, legs thrown over Ian's as they tangled themselves together. Ian's arm was protectively holding against Mickey's back, tugging and pulling him closer each time he shivered. Mickey ran his nearly covered fingers back and forth against Ian's toned and exposed abs, feeling his eyes droop with the smooth skin.

Ian was keeping him safe. He always did. It was a thing now.

Those three words popped in his head. Like a rocket shooting into space.

Mickey felt himself saying before he realised, “I love you, Ian.”

Ian darted his head to the side, in shock. “Wait, what?”

Mickey could feel himself slur into sleep, his eyes pressing closed as his mouth tried to move with the words. Ian was still not listening. He was more dumb than he looked, really. “I _said,_ I love you.”

The redhead stopped breathing, entrapped by the words all at once. Was Mickey being serious? Did he mean that, or was it the medicine talking? He leans down and plants a kiss at the side of Mickey's sleepy face. “I love you too, Mick.” He whispers.

Mickey pulls himself more onto Ian, his body finally starting to warm up before it cooled down almost completely. Tiredly, he moves his left hand over Ian's heart, tensing a little when he felt Ian's place itself ontop of it. He focused on the steady beat of Ian's heart, following it as he fell relaxed.

His breath matched with Ian's slow breathing, his own ragged and slightly blocked by the cold taken over his body. In the comfort of Ian's arms he soon fell asleep.


End file.
